


ready for those flashing lights

by lovebeyondmeasure



Series: CSFirstFest Ficlets [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Actress Robin Ellacott, Alternate Universe, Club Owner Cormoran Strike, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, One Shot, Self-Indulgent, Title from a Lady Gaga Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: “Robin! Robin! Over here!”“Robin! Any comment about Matthew being seen out with Elin Toft?!”“Robin, who are you wearing today?”Robin's an actress. Matthew's her dreaded ex, and worse- her costar. Cormoran owns a night club, and has an idea.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Original Female Character(s), Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: CSFirstFest Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681525
Comments: 15
Kudos: 69
Collections: The Cormoran Strike Fest of Firsts





	ready for those flashing lights

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. This is so self-indulgent, I had so much fun writing it, I will accept absolutely zero criticism at this or any other time. I crammed in all four of today's #CSFirstFest prompts, somehow!
> 
> If it doesn't make sense, it's an AU, it doesn't have to make sense. Just have fun! (And my thanks to Linds for the name of Cormoran's club, you're an angel and I couldn't do it without you.)
> 
> Title from Lady Gaga's Paparazzi. (How could I not?)

“Robin! Robin! Over here!”

“Robin! Any comment about Matthew being seen out with Elin Toft?!”

“Robin, who are you wearing today?”

Putting her head down as she ducked across the street from her house to the waiting car, Robin quite wanted to punch the paparazzi in their collective faces. They lurked everywhere these days, it seemed, and she was having an absolute devil of a time trying to shake them. 

“You know, you _could_ just go on vacation, like I’ve been telling you to do for a year and a half now,” said her personal assistant, Annabelle. “Skip town, hide out behind some sunnies and a very large drink. Get snaps taken of you with some hotties on a beach somewhere.”

Robin rolled her eyes, laughing. “Yes, because the studio would adore that. Dear executives who sign my paycheques, mind if I skip town in the middle of the season to get sunburnt and frolic with some lads? It’ll go over a treat.”

Annabelle sighed. “Worth a shot. Alright, you’ve been invited to appear on two morning shows to promote the release of the box set, and the studio wants you on the red carpet for the premiere of the new series of, uh, The Throckmortons of Tortworth. God, the titles just get worse, don't they? I’ve let Guy Somé know, he’s going to get you fitted this afternoon for all three.”

“What, am I not allowed to turn anything down anymore?” Robin knew the answer was no, she wasn’t. But she wished she could anyway. After she and Matthew had so publically imploded, she needed every chance she could get to rehab her image. 

The fact that _he_ was the unfaithful one had no bearing on the situation, of course. He got to swan about with a continual stream of beautiful women, and she was the shrew who’d driven him to cheat on her. That’s what the tabloids said, and there was no way The Sun would ever print _lies,_ was there? Perish the thought!

Oh, she could absolutely rip out all his perfectly coiffed hair, given half a chance. 

“So we’ll be out late tonight,” Annabelle was saying, and Robin tuned in and pretended to have heard any of it. 

“Right,” she said. “Text me the details so I don’t forget, would you?”

Her PA gave her a very flat look that said _I don’t believe that for one minute,_ but dutifully started tapping on her phone. 

The day passed as they usually did between shoots: both slowly and too fast. Her fitting with Guy, who was his usual self, full of sly innuendo and sharp wit, was a blur of putting things on and taking them off again, feeling selfconscious about her midsection and arse when surrounded by actual models, and being told that she really ought to try this or that new fad diet. Guy told her that full hips and thighs were all the rage this season while glancing at Ciara Porter, who was slim like a birch tree and just as pale. Ciara stuck out her tongue at Guy, who cackled and told Robin that she was never to wear that shade of orange again, never mind the fact that he’d told her to put it on not two minutes previous. She came out of the studio with her outfits chosen and her self esteem somehow both punctured and bolstered at once.

From there she was carted off to a luncheon with some collection of executives she didn’t recognize, and she turned on her Robin Ellacott Charm and played her part exceedingly well between bites of tasteless canapes and overwatered champagne. She smiled for the cameras and certainly didn’t notice the way the paunchy men in their expensive suits managed to get their hands on her arse. Certainly not. 

Then off for a proper lunch where no one could see her destroy a lamb vindaloo, Annabelle updating her on some social media rumors that only made her laugh- apparently she was currently pregnant with Matthew’s baby, and he’d run off because of his fear of commitment, or else she’d tried to trap him and he was wise to her ways. Either way, she informed Annabelle, that outfit had been a disaster, _as she had said all along._ Considering the rumors it had spawned, she felt vindicated. 

On and on the day went, and throughout she was dogged by paps who wanted to catch her looking tired or pregnant or otherwise weak, like sharks searching for blood. She smiled and smiled and dodged them for all she was worth.

“I get to go home after this, right?” she muttered to Annabelle in the car. “I’d like to get out of these shoes, they’re chafing something awful.”

“Sorry, love,” Annabelle said, digging through her pocketbook. “We’re off to the club, there’s an event tonight and Vanessa asked for you to be there, you’ve already said you’d go.”

Robin took the proffered bandages and applied them to her feet. “Well, if it’s for Vanessa,” she sighed. Vanessa Ekwensi was her favorite co-star, and she’d like to maintain the few friendships she had left. “Wait, it’s not her birthday, is it?”

“No, it’s some other thing,” Annabelle reassured her. “Her birthday isn’t until next month, you’ve already got her a present.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Robin said. “Honestly, Anna, I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”

They pulled up to the club- Vanessa’s favorite, Third & Out, as usual- and Robin hesitated before opening the door. The swarm of paparazzi was larger than usual tonight; they must have noticed that there was something bringing out the stars of _Malplaquet House_ to this particular club tonight. 

“God, I’d much rather just get in the line and wait in the cold rather than deal with this lot,” Robin said, still looking out the glass at the crush. “I mean, can’t we just pretend to be normal for once?”

“Sorry, Rob,” Annabelle said, not sounding particularly sorry. “This is what happens when you’re a beloved presence on the telly. Chin up and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Robin took a breath and launched herself smoothly out of the car, keeping her head down even as she strode right past the line and up to the door. 

“Hello,” she said to the doorman, who blessedly recognized her. 

“Miz Ellacott,” the man said, nodding her through. “Pleasure.”

She went right in and glanced around, getting her bearings. She hated being alone in places like this; there were too many people, too loud, too much. But Annabelle was off for the night, and really there was no reason she couldn’t duck in, make her rounds, and be out again in an hour or so. 

She made her way through the crowd towards the VIP section, where she could see Vanessa holding court with a cool smile, and then froze and ducked into a shadowed alcove.

Matthew was there. He was standing right there in the VIP section, his arm around a cool, icily beautiful woman who Robin knew must be Elin Toft, his new girlfriend. 

Elin looked like a more beautiful version of Sarah Shadlock. The resemblance did absolutely nothing to endear her to Robin, and in fact drove home the fact that Matthew’s type was blonde and leggy. 

What the fuck was Matthew doing there? He had seemed content to allow Robin to keep Vanessa in the breakup. She was going to _scream_ if she had to play nice with him tonight.

“All right there, love?”

Robin startled at the voice that came from behind her shoulder; she’d thought she was tucked out of sight, but as she turned she realized she was in fact in a doorway, and the man behind her had opened the door and spoken.

“Sorry,” she said, looking up at him. He had a boxer’s face, a bit battered with a nose that had seen better days, and a riot of curls that had been trimmed into something that had once been somewhat stylish, six weeks ago, and was now merely unruly. 

“For what?” he asked, now amused, and it raised Robin’s hackles to be laughed at, every time. 

“Whatever I did to make you concerned about me,” she said, poisonously sweet. “I’m quite alright, thanks kindly.”

“Oh, you wound me,” he said, laughing now. He wasn’t attractive, but he had a nice voice. “I can tell when I’m not wanted. I only wondered because you looked ready to do violence, and I can’t be having that in my club.”

“ _Your_ club?” Robin asked, brows raising slightly. “Ah, so you must be the mysterious Mr Strike.”

“And how would you know that?” Strike asked, raising his eyebrows right back. Robin laughed, enjoying the turning of the tables.

“We have a few mutual acquaintances,” she said, voice raised to be heard over the pounding of the bass as the song changed. She allowed Strike to wonder, and waited for him to make the next move. Anything to delay having to walk over to Matthew. 

“Do we, now,” Strike said, clearly re-evaluating her, trying to place her. Robin doubted he was a viewer, and wondered if he’d figure it out. 

“Robin Ellacott,” she said, finally taking pity on him. She extended a hand to be shaken, and was bemused when Strike instead took it and bowed over it a little, raising it to his lips to be kissed. 

“Enchanté,” he said, parodying a continental dandy. “Cormoran Strike, at your service.”

“If only you were,” she said, not loud enough to be heard, only he leaned in and said, “oh? Did you need something? My club not up to snuff for a glamorous star such as yourself?”

She narrowed her eyes at his tone. “Your establishment is fine,” she said. “It’s the clientele I have issue with.” She nodded to the VIP section, which was directly in their line of sight; Robin wondered if the room behind them wasn't his office. It would make sense; you could see most of the club from this spot. 

“Ah,” Strike said, not looking away from her face. “Shall I have the person in question ejected?” A teasing light danced in his eyes, but Robin was struck by the odd feeling that if she asked, he really would have Matthew tossed out onto the curb.

Robin shook her head. She shouldn’t be discussing this here, in public, where anyone could hear.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said, but Strike reached out to take her hand. It seemed to surprise him as much as her; he looked down at their hands as though wondering how on earth they had connected.

“Come into my office,” he said, and ah, Robin did love to be right. “My curiosity will never rest until I know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Robin allowed herself to be drawn into the office. Vanessa wouldn’t notice how late she was, based on the way her friend was now dancing, and she wasn’t ready to face Matthew and his new girlfriend just yet. 

The door closing had the unexpected effect of cutting off most of the music; Robin felt off-balance from the sudden quiet. Strike went over to a bar and poured himself a few fingers of what looked like a rather nice whisky. 

“Want anything?” he asked, looking at her. 

“Have any wine?” she asked, and he rummaged around before pulling out a bottle. 

“Sauv Blanc alright?”

“Sure,” she said, sitting in one of the leather chairs. Of course it was leather; Strike seemed the man’s-man type, all cigars and brass. He poured her a generous glass and handed it to her, leaning against the arm of the other chair. She took a sip, enjoying the way it burst across her tongue. 

“Now, go on. You need help with something?” Strike asked, looking as though he had a mild interest in what she might say next. Robin rather enjoyed the way he was treating her like an ordinary person and not like an object or a meal ticket. 

“That’s not what I said,” Robin objected easily.

“No, you’re right.” Strike’s eyes flickered away and his mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. She noticed that he had a scar running through his lip, then realized she was staring at his mouth and took another sip of her wine. “I said I was at your service, and you said you wished I was, or something of the sort. What kind of service could a humble club owner do a tabloid darling?”

Robin gave him a flat sort of look. “If you think I’m a darling, I’d hate to see what you think a villain looks like. According to those rags, I caused my own breakup by, variously, being too clingy, being too cold, locking him in with a pregnancy, or faking a pregnancy to try to keep him.”

“Ah,” Strike said, swirling his glass. “And he, in this case, would be…”

Robin liked Strike immensely for seemingly to honestly not know. 

“My ex-fiance, and current costar, Matthew Cunliffe,” she said, feeling the bitterness twisting her mouth. “Who happens to be standing with his new arm candy up in your VIP section, with the rest of the cast.”

“Wait, Matthew Cunliffe?”

Robin laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Thank you, Mr Strike, for not knowing. It’s a salve to my wounded pride that at least one person in this godforsaken city doesn’t know about the torrid nonsense that has become my personal life.” She took a deep drink from her glass and looked up at Strike through her mascara-laden lashes. 

“That bastard,” Strike said, not looking at her but up at the ceiling, “has now been seen publicly with not one but _two_ of my exes, and I am growing to hate his smarmy face.”

“Then we have that in common,” Robin said, raising her mostly-empty glass in a toast. “Who have you dated?”

“Charlotte Campbell and Elin Toft,” he said, with very little emotion coloring the words.

Robin nodded, absently twirling a lock of her hair round one finger. “I don’t think he and Charlotte actually dated, but they were seen together one or twice not long after he and I- ended things. He’s here with Elin right now, though. They seem to be making a go of it. God, I wish she weren’t blonde.” She threw back the rest of her wine. 

“He’s with Elin _here?_ ” Strike asked, a dark cloud passing over his face. “That’s pretty fucking presumptuous of both of them.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “That’s Matthew for you. He’s never had to deal with not getting his way before. He just does what he likes and damn the consequences, and the consequences never quite seem to catch up.”

Strike was looking at her with an evaluative eye, and despite the fact that Robin didn’t find him more than passingly attractive she still adjusted her dress a bit, out of reflex more than anything. 

“They’re the reason you were standing there, right?” Strike asked finally. 

Robin nodded. “I wasn’t expecting to see him here. Vanessa likes this place- she’s one of our mutual friends, actually, I think- and I sort of got her in the breakup. Matthew’s been steering well clear of me. I think he’s afraid of what I’ll do in front of the cameras.”

Not that she could afford to do anything drastic where the paps might see. She’d certainly come out worse, no matter what the facts happened to be. But the threat seemed to be keeping him away, and that was a blessing. 

“Hmm.” Strike set down his now-empty glass and folded his arms. The evaluative look was back, and Robin wasn’t sure what to expect. It certainly wasn’t this: “I have an idea, but it’s a bit odd. Feel free to say no.”

Robin arched an eyebrow at him. 

“How would you like to date?”

She blinked. “Come again?”

“Date. Me, I mean. The two of us.” Strike gestured between them, slightly impatient. 

“But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Strike grinned, and there was something charming about the bloodlust in his eyes. “Our exes are very publically dating. If you and I take up together, it’ll drive them both mad.”

Robin could only look at him, the gears turning in her mind. Annabelle _had_ told her that she ought to try moving on, or at least pretending to publicly, so that the rags could stop spinning things to make her look like she was either pining for or still angry with Matthew. And Strike was the opposite of Matthew in plenty of ways- less classically handsome, but taller, broader, more imposing. And there was something about him, something that felt a bit… dangerous, maybe. She thought he might have been in the army; had Vanessa mentioned that? And he owned a nightclub. He was about as far from blond, bland, family-friendly Matthew Cunliffe as Robin could imagine. 

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

“Not the most ringing of endorsements, but I’ll take it,” Strike said, extending a hand to Robin. She took it, allowing him to help her up. Standing, she found that she came up to somewhere between his nose and eyebrows; her heeled boots, of course, helped.

This close to him, Robin found that Strike’s cologne was nice; a woody, clean scent, nothing like Matthew’s overbearing fake musk. His broad chest made her feel petite, not something she was accustomed to. 

“Good, you’re not too short,” Strike said. “That would give the game away. I don’t go for small women.”

Robin looked right up into his eyes, giving him an unimpressed look. He laughed, but not unkindly. 

“Sorry, I mean height-wise. You have a nice- uh-”

He bit off the rest of his sentence, and it was Robin’s turn to laugh. 

“I accept your compliment in the spirit it was meant,” she said.

Strike looked at her a little curiously. “You don’t know what I was going to say.” 

“I don’t need to,” she said, a little cheekily. The wine was sitting easily in her mostly-empty stomach, and it gave her the hint of boldness she needed. “I have a nice everything.”

He laughed again. He had a nice laugh, Robin decided. It opened up his face, made him look less dour. She’d never met a club owner who looked so dour as Strike, but when he laughed he looked younger, nicer. More attractive. She could see how he’d managed to date two gorgeous women, when he laughed. 

“You do,” he agreed, giving her a once-over that scorched. “Won’t be hard to sell being into you, I shouldn’t think.”

“Why thank you,” she said, a bit primly. “Speaking of which, how shall we sell it? I’ve never done the fake-relationship thing in real life before, but I do know that we ought to have our stories straight.”

Strike’s brow creased and he looked up at the ceiling again as he thought. “How’s this: we met one of the last times you came here- I assume you’ve been here before enough times to make that plausible?”

Robin thought. “Yeah, like I said, this is where Vanessa likes to come, so I’ve been a few times.”

“Easy enough. We bumped into each other, I comped you a drink or two, got to chatting, I took you home-”

Robin held up a hand. “Nope, won’t do. I never go home with guys on the first date.”

Not that she’d been on a first date in nearly five years, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Fine then, you _didn’t_ come home with me, which only piqued my interest more,” Strike said. “Actually, that’s good, it’s more believable. And that way no one will question why we didn’t get photographed together.”

Robin made a sound of disgust. “I hate that my life now includes the omnipresent threat of being photographed. As though things aren’t real unless someone splashes it at the top of some sleazy web article.”

Strike gave her a questioning look. “I would think it would be part and parcel of being on telly,” he said. “Charlotte was so used to it.”

Robin tossed her hair. “I didn’t think Malplaquet House would take off like it did,” she said. “We only auditioned as a lark, because they were doing it near my uni. I never thought… well, this isn’t what I thought my life would be like, put it that way.”

“You went to uni?” Strike asked, sounding surprised. Why did people _always_ sound surprised?

“Yes,” she snapped. “For criminal psychology. I only left because the show got picked up.”

“I didn’t finish uni either,” Strike said, and then looked startled, as though he hadn’t expected to say that. “No shame in it.”

Robin took a breath. “You’re right,” she said. “Anyway, we’re both successful now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” Strike said. “Alright, are you ready to go out there and make our exes jealous?”

Robin nodded. “Yes, alright.” She tugged her dress right, making sure the green material was hanging properly around her hips, then had a thought. “Hang on. If we’re aiming to make them jealous…”

Strike looked intrigued. “Yes?”

Robin summoned up her courage, told herself it didn’t really matter that she hadn’t kissed a man since Matthew, and reached up to yank Strike’s face down to hers and press their lips together.

It was messy, but that was rather the point; Robin wanted to look a bit mussed. It would explain their late arrival, and bother Matthew. She’d expected the kiss to be awkward.

She _hadn’t_ expected Strike to make a surprised noise and then sink into the kiss, slotting their mouths together more firmly and licking at her lips. She parted them, allowing him entrance, and Strike kissed her soundly, rather expertly, his hands coming to her hips to hold her steady as he plundered her mouth.

By the time they pulled apart, Robin knew her lips were swollen and her breath was short, and could see that Strike was similarly affected. Unexpected, but… not entirely unwelcome. 

“That worked a treat,” she said, trying to not give away how much she’d enjoyed kissing this near-stranger. “Now I look properly rumpled.”

“Rumpled is good,” Strike said. “We could even go for debauched.” One of his hands was still on her hips, and his thumb was stroking the smooth fabric there, sending heat through her. 

“Hm,” Robin said, stepping away. “Let’s save debauched for another time. I’m late enough as it is already.”

“Another time?” Strike asked, following her to the door. “I look forward to it, Miss Ellacott.”

As they headed toward the VIP section, where she could see Vanessa and some of her other castmates dancing, Matthew and Elin looking supercilious off to the side, Robin did not dare to say that she was looking forward to next time, too.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos appreciated! Even just an emoji is such a reward. Thanks for reading!
> 
> ETA: lemon_verbena wrote a sequel to this that follows directly from where I leave off! It's very good and I highly recommend it if you enjoyed this work.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [this photo of us, it don't have a price](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063594) by [lemon_verbena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_verbena/pseuds/lemon_verbena)




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